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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25480867">f o l k l o r e</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/motherofrevels/pseuds/motherofrevels'>motherofrevels</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — null [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Onward (2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Father/Son Incest, Incest, M/M, Underage Kissing, Underage Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:48:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,858</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25480867</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/motherofrevels/pseuds/motherofrevels</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In lucid dreams, through the absence of time, father and son are united.</p><p>CONTENT WARNING: Please consider reading the applied tags carefully.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Lightfoot &amp; Wilden Lighfoot, Ian Lightfoot/Wilden Lightfoot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — null [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1972084</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 🌕 p e a c e 🌕</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“This is only a dream—”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The heady aroma of nettled pines and condensation mingle with the familiar fragrance of aftershave and musk. Golden eyes—framed by gibbous spectacles—trace the perpendicular slopes of delicate shoulders; trailing up to the sun-kissed planes of high cheekbones and a timid flush.</p><p>“You know he’s <em>in love</em> with you . . . <em>don’t</em> you? You <em>have</em> to know,” a voice inquired, mellow and velveteen on their companion’s flourished ears.</p><p>Valentine eyes—kissed by wonder—raised to study the cerulean down of a manicured beard. They held their place, admiring the sculpted jaw that laid beneath, and contemplated for a moment what the man before them would have looked like without his trademark scruff.</p><p>But they would never be offered the chance to find out. The fates hadn’t allowed them the opportunity to convene.</p><p>And an image lost to time remains unchanged.</p><p>“I know,” a crisper, more youthful voice answered, “But I’m not . . . I-I’m not sure—I don’t know if it’s <em>right</em>.”</p><p>And then a laugh—hearty and bright—glanced along the soaring trees and heavy fog, filling the slumbering wood with audible sunshine against the ascendancy of overcast.</p><p>“You don’t know if its <em>right</em>?” Wilden inquired, quirking a dense brow as he allowed his gaze of liquid gold to pour into twin pools of axinite. “It can’t be much worse than <em>this</em>,” he smiled sardonically, motioning between them.</p><p>Iandore found himself bristling, then balking; ending in a discontented sigh.</p><p>“B-But its—This is <em>different</em>,” he defended, gaze slipping from hazel to study the buttons of his father’s slate button-up. “This is only a <em>dream</em>—”</p><p>“A dream you’ve invested a lot of <em>love</em> into,” Wilden interrupted, tilting his head to encourage his son to meet his gaze once again. “A dream you won’t allow yourself to <em>let go</em> of . . .”</p><p>But Ian wasn’t having it; brows furrowing as a pout blighted the fullness of his lips. He shifted in his place upon the blanket beneath him, winding his arms around himself as his father reached to take his hand.</p><p>And then there was silence; heavy and brief.</p><p>“I just want to see you happy with someone who’s capable of <em>caring</em> for you, Ian,” the elder Lightfoot breathed, resting a palm in his junior’s lap. “You can’t keep <em>doing</em> this to yourself,” he pressed, offering a wistful shake of his head. “There are a lot of men out there—<em>good</em> men—who deserve your time. And you hanging on to this <em>idea</em> you have of me? It’s . . . It’s <em>killing</em> you—”</p><p>“It’s not <em>killing</em> me,” the petite mage rebuffed; jaw tightening as he chanced a simmering glimpse at his elder. “I-It’s not <em>hurting</em> anyone—”</p><p>“It’s hurting <em>Laurel</em>,” the greater man interrupted, a tinge of thunder intertwining with baritone.  “It’s hurting your <em>mother</em>, and she doesn’t deserve it. And I won’t <em>have</em> it,” Wilden scolded, his own jaw tightening as his resting hand shifted to grip at his son’s limber thigh. “Let alone <em>Barley</em>—”</p><p>“Don’t talk about <em>Barley</em>,” Ian snapped, unwinding his arms to force his father’s hand from his lap. “I don’t <em>wanna</em> think about Barley—”</p><p>“And why <em>not</em>?” Wilden pressed with a tilt of his head; Midas-toned leer challenging his youngest son. “Because it makes you feel <em>guilty</em>? You can’t pretend he doesn’t <em>exist</em>, Ian . . . He’s trying his best to make you happy, and all you ever give him is <em>grief</em>.”</p><p>Full lips released a little scoff, eyes of confectioner’s chocolate boring hollows into the golden ring on his father’s fur-lined knuckle.</p><p>“I just . . . I-I need more time to <em>think</em>,” Ian sighed, the step in his teeth gnawing at his lower lip restlessly. “I just—I wanna be with <em>you</em>,” he began, elevating his gaze to catch his father’s. “And if I let myself <em>love</em> him . . . This’ll all—” a pause for the vexed flutter of fawn-like lashes, “—This’ll all go away . . . A-And then I—I’ll never <em>see you</em> again.”</p><p>And then came the silence, null and void; only the modest beginnings of precipitation against the canopy of leaves above them left to fill the calm.</p><p>Eventually, Wilden reached to drape the silken skin of his son’s trembling hand with the calloused warmth of his own. Iandore wouldn’t cry. Not just yet. But his father knew him well enough to offer solace before the storm.</p><p>“If you’d let yourself be loved the way you <em>deserve</em> . . . You wouldn’t <em>need</em> <em>me</em> anymore,” Wilden assured, a wistful smile tugging at his mustached lips. “We need to head back before you wake up, sweetness,” the bearded gentleman announced, offering the delicate hand beneath his own an affectionate squeeze. “I’ll grab the blanket, you grab my hand.”</p><p>And so it was; the two of them collecting their trace belongings and trudging onward—hand-in-hand—into the murmuring peace. By the time they’d approached the gnarls and bows of Wilden’s modest cabin, an (especially boisterous) rumble of thunder had given birth to a steady rainfall. Father and son pushed beyond the threshold; the familiar soundscape of crackling fire conjuring a memory of Barley in Iandore’s mind.</p><p>But it was quickly discarded in favor of current company—doe-eyes observing the lumbering silhouette of his father as the man tossed the dampened blanket he carried onto the floor.</p><p>“Go stand by the fire, while I get you something dry to change into,” the taller man instructed, motioning to the glistering roar of the fireplace before ambling over to his armoire.</p><p>The willowy magician did as he was instructed, a shiver running through him as he plucked at the buttons of his shirt; peeling it from his wiry arms and carefully hanging it before the flames. No sooner than he’d done so, had his father returned to his side; carrying with him a simple cotton shirt. Eyes of honeyed-olive followed the firelit contours of his son’s sun-flecked skin—layers of saturated clothing falling to the floor.</p><p>Wilden waited patiently, expression brushed with pride and possessiveness as he eyed his gifted youngest.</p><p>“I don’t have any pants that’ll fit you . . . You’ll have to make due with a shirt,” he informed, swallowing tensely as he watched the fragile spellcaster dip to retrieve his dewy clothing—hanging it to dry. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Ian smiled, rain-chilled fingers brushing against his elder’s as he accepted the clean cotton garment, sliding it over his head and arms; allowing it to fall around his lanky hips. “Sometimes I steal . . . I like wearing <em>Barley’s</em> shirts,” he admitted with a tinge of dissonance, “to <em>sleep</em> in, at least.”</p><p>His father quirked a brow, smiling tenderly at this newfound information.</p><p>“<em>Barley’s</em> shirts, eh?” he mirrored with a soft chuckle, “Well, mine couldn’t possibly compare.”</p><p>The two shared an uneasy chuckle, laboring to clear the air between them; a clash of dusk and sunset as father and son peered into each other.</p><p>At least, for a time; Wilden’s gaze eventually sinking to the hem of his own shirt ghosting along the lissome thighs of his youngest . . .</p><p>“Lemme help,” Ian murmured, turning to face his father in-full; nimble fingers reaching to unfasten his father’s rain-soaked button-up.</p><p>“I can do it,” the elder Lightfoot contended, only to receive an incredulous glance from his junior. And with another little chuckle, he accepted; hair-dusted skin revealed as Ian worked his way down.</p><p>“You never told me where you got this scar,” Ian mused, thumbing across the raised skin at his senior’s side—earning himself a little shiver in response.</p><p>“It’s <em>old</em>,” Wilden replied with a shrug, voice almost too silent to be heard. “Like me,” he grinned, catching his son’s sepia gaze.</p><p>And next, a pause—the frail magician allowing his hands to trail to his father’s well-worn belt—</p><p>“<em>Don’t</em>,” the elder mage balked, dense fingers catching delicate wrists.</p><p>For a moment, they merely stared; Ian at his father’s chest, and Wilden at his son’s rain-kissed curls.</p><p>“W-We did it <em>before</em>—”</p><p>“We <em>shouldn’t</em> have.”</p><p>“Well, we did<em>,”</em> Ian barked, voice raised to slice through the gentle crackling of the fire.</p><p>And there they stood, once again at odds with themselves and each-other.</p><p>“<em>Ian</em>,” Wilden began, broad hands raised to find purchase upon his son’s silken cheeks. “I’m <em>sorry</em> . . . I just,” an exhalation, and a shake of his head, “I <em>can’t</em>, right now.” And with this, he allowed his calloused thumbs to trace along the parted petals of his son’s pout. “I <em>love</em> you, but, I <em>can’t</em>. At least . . . not <em>today</em>.”</p><p>Delicate jaw clenched in irritation, Ian’s eyes never raised to meet his elder’s. Instead, he merely allowed himself to be caressed; the heady cedar of his father’s cologne pervading his senses against the heat of firelight.</p><p>“Then . . . will you <em>kiss</em> me? At least?” the junior Lightfoot beseeched, youthful voice laced with hesitation.</p><p>So with a little pause—and a somber smile—Wilden complied; dipping to capture the fullness of freckled lips with his own.</p><p>The coarse flair of a noble beard against the youthful cashmere of an eager mouth, and Iandore was melting into his senior’s kiss . . .</p><p>With this, his bedside alarm clock would beckon him to face another day</p><p>But the dreamlike flavor of Wilden’s lips—folklore in theory and practice—would come to linger on Ian’s tongue throughout the day.</p><p>As it always had in the past, and as he hoped it would always continue to, night after ephemeral night.</p><p>Distorting the gossamer boundary between perception and dreams.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 🌖 e x i l e 🌖</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Though Iandore found himself dissatisfied with many areas of his father’s woodland dwelling, Wilden seemed to greet each day with boyish enthusiasm.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>One solid swing bled into another, and the sound of splitting wood resounded into the forest about them. The late morning sun burned hot and brilliant, illuminating the stillness of a painted world in bands of golden light. And standing at the center of it all, stood whimsy’s grandest architect; readying firewood for the guillotine.</p><p>Baby-doll eyes—hued in sepia—watched the man before them split the following several logs in twain, arranging them in a messy pile as he worked. Beads of liquid starlight glistened along pastel skin; a solar-scape reflected in perspiration.</p><p>“Is there anything I can do to help?” Iandore offered from his place beneath the gable roof, voice alight by childish zeal as he admired his father’s efforts.</p><p>With a shake of his head and a wipe of his brow, Wilden yielded his answer; hair dampened from exertion.</p><p>“You just stay put and look pretty,” the Lightfoot patriarch instructed, offering his progeny a trademark grin—a bit too crooked, and a bit too eager. “Your mother would <em>kill</em> me if anything happened to you,” he continued, steadying another log for the plunge of his axe. “Stand back and let your old man handle this, <em>huh</em>?”</p><p>Another swing, another cleave, another cascade of sweat embellishing the flex of muscle.</p><p>“Sure thing,” Ian murmured, crossing his arms and leaning himself against a support beam; gaze descending from his father’s back, to the waistband of his faded denim shorts. “Do you . . . want me to start a fire for a bath?” he suggested next—Wilden splitting the last of his timber and heaving a sigh of relief.</p><p>“<em>Ian</em>—I got it, buddy,” Wilden deflected, winded but jolly. “You know, when you’re not here, I manage myself just fine . . . I’m not a <em>dog</em>,” he jested, a quirk of his brow accompanying a chuckle.</p><p>The junior Lightfoot chuckled along with him; the faintest stroke of a flush gracing his sun-kissed cheeks.</p><p>“I-I <em>know</em>, I just . . . You do <em>everything</em> for me, while I’m here,” the little mage sighed, expression softening into one of sympathy as his gaze followed the motions of his father gathering their firewood.</p><p>“I’m your <em>Dad</em>,” the taller man asserted, as though any other response would have been deemed ludicrous. “I’m <em>supposed</em> to look after you—”</p><p>“Y-Yeah, <em>sure</em>. But looking after me doesn’t mean—I-I dunno—Waiting on me hand and foot?” the willowy youth contested, pulling his lower lip between his teeth anxiously.</p><p>And Wilden, as he arranged the fruits of his labor alongside the porch, found himself uncertain of his own response.</p><p>“<em>Look</em>,” he began, raising to his full might, calloused hands resting upon his hips. “I never got the chance to be a father to you. And until . . . Until you decided to let go of <em>all this</em>,” a brief pause to gesture about them, “I’m in <em>exile</em> here, with nothing to do but be good to you . . . And that’s exactly what I’m gonna <em>do</em>.”</p><p>Ian’s heart was caught between skipping a beat and aching with remorse.</p><p>He knew very well the repercussions of his actions; holding his father in this romanticized incarceration. But Lightfoot senior—amiable as he ever was—never held his son accountable.</p><p>Running a broad hand through his sweat-soaked hair, Wilden carefully studied his junior’s hesitation. Caramel and chocolate leveled in a dual of mutual indecision, neither man confident in their projected responses.</p><p>“I’m gonna go heat up the bath . . . You can start <em>lunch</em>, if you want?” the bespectacled man offered, a tinge of hopefulness in his voice.</p><p>And his suggestion was rewarded in-kind; a meager smile lighting his youngest son’s lips as he nodded his approval.</p><p>With this, they went about their separate ways; going through the motions of their menial tasks as though there were nothing unusual in their current state of affairs. Though they would readily admit, the half-life they shared was oftentimes a taxing one. Everything about maintaining a residence in the wilds presented a challenge. And though Iandore found himself dissatisfied with many areas of his father’s woodland dwelling, Wilden seemed to greet each day with boyish enthusiasm.</p><p>Eventually, the two found themselves seated on the back porch, languidly sipping at their soup—a hearty blend of potatoes, mushrooms, and assorted meats. And alongside them, the fire kindled beneath the sizable cedar hot tub crackled pridefully; the older man’s handiwork serving as a testament to his adaption to rural life.</p><p>Ian couldn’t help but observe his brother’s penchant for adventure and wanderlust reflected in his father’s eagerness to embrace the wild unknown; a trait inherited as evidently as their radiant golden eyes.</p><p>“Well, I guess I’ll be having that bath, then,” the older mage announced, setting down his bowl and padding out onto the blanket of leaves and grass.</p><p>Reaching the edge of his handcrafted tub, Wilden gave the water a cursory stroke, finding it warmed to perfection as he reached for the button of his sun-bleached denims . . . And then a hesitant pause; casting a timid glance over a broad shoulder to catch his son’s eyes admiring him.</p><p>“Did you wanna hop in <em>first</em>?” he offered, letting his hands fall to his sides as he turned to face his junior. “The water’s gonna be dirty when I’m done with it.”</p><p>Ian seemed to contemplate this for a moment, pursing his lips as he rested his empty bowl into his father’s.</p><p>“You did all the hard work . . . I-I just s-stood around and <em>watched</em> all day,” he smiled, brows pinched in sympathy as he presented an awkward shrug.</p><p>But Wilden offered a modest wave of his ring-bearing hand, dismissing the boy’s self-criticism with a soft chuckle.</p><p>“Hey, I had <em>fun</em> today,” he countered, a goofy grin highlighting his sincerity.  “Gotta get my exercise in wherever I can,” he finished teasingly, patting his stomach as though there were anything there but hair-dusted skin and developing muscle.</p><p>Ian gave a little scoff, taking a stand from the wooden bench to join his father beneath the illuminated warmth of the afternoon. Cherubic curls—adorned in a solar halo—swayed gently in the fragrant breeze; the bearded wizard’s fingers instinctively reaching to toy with a stray cerulean spiral.</p><p>“What’s up?” Wilden inquired, expression softening into one of adoration at his progeny's reticent approach. “You wanna go first?”</p><p>But Ian merely shrugged, a rosy flush blooming beneath his freckles as he raised delicate fingers to trace along his father’s wedding band.</p><p>“I-I’ll help you wash your back?” he extended, but it rang as a request.</p><p>Wilden merely paused; eyes of treasured gold seeking mousy axinite—his son’s chaste flush mirrored upon his own whiskered cheeks.</p><p>“<em>Sure</em>,” he sighed, grinning sheepishly as nimble fingers moved to pluck at the button of his fly. “But <em>just</em> my back . . . Got it? Let’s not <em>start</em> something we won’t have time to <em>finish</em>.”</p><p>And as much as he detested the notion of settling for less, Iandore knew his father to be correct.</p><p>For their time together was fleeting; the dawning of another day eagerly anticipating its opportunity to divide them once again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Any questions or comments are welcome and appreciated. Thank-you for reading.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 🌗 e p i p h a n y 🌗</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Reflecting his father’s single day to walk the earth, this too would pass without his envisioned connection.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was always so surreal, the sensation of waking up within a dream.</p><p>The mellow sparkle of a diminishing fire filled Iandore with a sense of serenity. His eyes—lacking the typical weight of lethargy he experienced in the waking world—traced the resting silhouette of the man he’d spent his entire life in pursuit of.</p><p>Gibbous frames removed, eyes rested closed, a bearded jaw in need of grooming . . . And just a bit lower, positioned between them upon his elder’s pillow, was a photograph.</p><p>It was simple and unadorned, showing signs of heavy wear; the edges frayed and the central image marred by creases. But the face immortalized within the polaroid was as familiar as it was striking.</p><p>Lengthy silken hair, a delicate marquis-cut jaw, eyes of golden-umber to match his own . . . His mother was a vision in muted florals, smiling shyly at the camera, tucking a stray lock of hair behind the apex of her ear.</p><p>It should have come as no surprise that his father slept next to a picture of the woman he’d sworn his life and loyalty to. But in the amber kiss of dwindling firelight, before the radiant aura of his hero; the truth was more painful than he’d prepared himself for.</p><p>A single action—so benign and free of intention—that felt to Iandore what a twisted blade may have felt to many others. A vivid reminder that, no matter how desperately he struggled to keep up, the setting sun would always escape him in favor of sleep.</p><p>Beneath the waves and out of reach.</p><p>Away from him.</p><p>Reflecting his father’s single day to walk the earth, this too would pass without his envisioned connection.</p><p>The love he felt for his father—poisoned by lust as it was—would never be returned in-kind. For the keeper of his elder’s heart rested there between them; smiling back at him with a purity and innocence that Iandore could only ever feign.</p><p>The sound of tentative rainfall against the windowsills interrupted his weighty thoughts, coaxing misted eyes from his mother’s image and into the whispering darkness of the outside world.</p><p>For a time, he merely peered into the black mirror of darkened glass, metabolizing his epiphany through a sequence of inquiries:</p><p>How long had he allowed himself to behave so selfishly?</p><p>Why had <em>Wilden</em> allowed it?</p><p>Why had his motives never been questioned?</p><p>When might he allow his father’s memory its merited rest?</p><p>And when that memory fled its imprisonment within this suspended world, what would he be left with?</p><p>The heady scent of firewood lured his mind’s eye toward yet another familiar presence; the sun’s champion, his ubiquitous guardian, the neon philistine, a weaver of golden fables.</p><p>His brother, Barley.</p><p>Wilden had often tried, albeit cautiously, to reproach him about his maltreatment of his older sibling. It wasn’t as though he was particularly cruel. Just staunchly negligent. But in his heart of hearts, Ian knew that his aloof behavior was slowly driving a wedge between them.</p><p>And that eventually, that wedge would cause the gentle brute to turn his back on their unbalanced kinship.</p><p>Upon further reflection, that was one of many intended outcomes; to rid himself of any distractions from the life he was building here within Wilden’s dreamscape. But lately, a schism was beginning to flourish.</p><p>Venomous bites of bitterness and resentment were beginning to fester between himself and the spectral image of the Lightfoot patriarch.</p><p>A venom with only one known antidote—</p><p>“<em>Ian</em>?” a gravelly voice called from beyond the ethereal ring of his subconscious. “We’re home . . .”</p><p>Full lashes—entwined with tears—squinted into the golden brilliance of the late-afternoon sun; valentine eyes straining against the light before settling upon their lumbering companion.</p><p>Hazel eyes examined Ian carefully, a look of heartfelt concern blemishing the rugged handsomeness of their bearer’s face.</p><p>“<em>Barley</em>?” Ian inquired, involuntarily relinquishing a few stray tears as he blinked back his fatigue. “How long was I asleep?”</p><p>Expression softening at the sight, a calloused hand extended to thumb away the crystalline trails of dissonance.</p><p>“Only twenty minutes,” Barley mumbled, tone tightly laced with caution. “You were out like a light as soon as we pulled out of the school lot . . . Did you have a bad dream?”</p><p>But the slighter Lightfoot merely shook his head, batting his elder’s broad hand away and scrubbing the fatigue from his eyes with a clear of his throat.</p><p>“N-<em>No</em> . . . It was a good one,” he tossed; unfastening his seatbelt, collecting his backpack, and exiting the vehicle in a series of listless motions. The sound of a heavy door closing only seconds behind his own hardly registered to him, but the heavy warmth of a hand on his shoulder interrupted his trek along the driveway.</p><p>“<em>Hey</em>,” Barley called, voice warm and muted as he held his junior in place; a gaze of Midas gold steadied to meet the whirl of somber axinite. “Before we go in—”</p><p>“<em>Barley</em>, I don’t <em>wanna</em> talk—”</p><p>“Just <em>listen</em> to me . . . <em>Please</em>?” the gamer beseeched, the scent of firewood heavy in Iandore’s senses as he turned to face the man in-full. “I know you don’t like talking about your feelings. Especially not with <em>me</em> . . . But I’m <em>here</em> for you, Ian. I’m <em>always</em> here, okay?”</p><p>The words pooled into the mage’s flourished ears like warm honey. They were earnest, comforting, and offered with altruistic intent . . .</p><p>But they weren’t what he wanted to hear. At least, not just yet.</p><p>At this moment, all Ian craved was the velveteen timbre of their father’s voice; nestled into the cassette player, immortalized in analog, held safely away from the harsh reality of a life they would never share.</p><p>And so without another word, he turned on his heel and stepped out from beneath his brother’s reassurance.</p><p>Abandoning the luminous adoration of his present, for an unrequited romance of his own creation.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 🌘 i n v i s i b l e   s t r i n g 🌘</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Despite the sporadic dissension simmering between them, their foundations of reverence and trust remained untarnished.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This hadn’t been Wilden’s intention; rough fingers encouraging fresh bruises along cashmere planes of pastel skin. But it had been far too long, and the hunger building within him had become unbearable.</p><p>There were so many things about his cherished youngest that reminded him of the woman he’d sworn fidelity to: The gossamer softness of their hair. The sun-flecked planes of high cheekbones, cascading into heart-shaped jawlines. Fawn-like lashes embellishing the valentine delicacy of blameless eyes . . .</p><p>And in this moment of carnal desire—with teeth clashing and hungry mouths exploring—lines were beginning to blur. Lines between family and lovers, father and brother, mother and child.</p><p>A noble beard grazed the tender junction between a lengthy throat and the perpendicular slope of trim shoulders; soft lips obscured by an unkempt mustache as Lightfoot senior kissed his way down the fragrant hollow of his boy’s chest.</p><p>Arching into these kisses, Ian’s breath hitched now and again—soft hands reaching to tangle in his father’s passion-disheveled tresses. And at the sensation of one of his nipples taken into a practiced mouth: A whimper. Timid and sweet, conveying all the desperation and demand of his raw inexperience.</p><p>But Lightfoot senior found his senses lost to impulse, teeth gently biting down at the hardening nub between his bristled lips, drawing a tremulous keen from his progeny.</p><p>“N-Not so <em>hard</em>,” the lissome mage beseeched, his father withdrawing in a final scrape of his teeth.</p><p>“Sorry, sweetheart,” Wilden breathed, moving to repeat his actions at his junior’s next nipple, all but disregarding his appeals for caution.</p><p>Though his deeds weren’t met with disagreement, but rather vocalized indulgence; fine nails digging into a faintly oily scalp as Iandore battled between bowing into—and away from—the teeth on his supple skin.</p><p>“I-It <em>hurts</em>,” he whimpered, shivers passing through him as his father pulled away; penumbral rings of luminous amber darkened by carnal need as they examined him.</p><p>“I <em>know</em>,” Wilden grumbled, expression free of the faint malice laced throughout his warm baritone. “But you sound so <em>beautiful</em>, I can’t help myself.”</p><p>The rosy flush they both shared deepened along the slighter boy’s cheekbones; the warmth of a libidinous tongue encircling his freshly sensitized nub; a little rhythm of suckling and biting offered just long enough to encourage a flair of soreness.</p><p>And when Iandore thought himself unable to bear a single nibble more, the golden-eyed mage retracted, gazing down at his shuddering handiwork.</p><p>“<em>Gods</em>, you look so much like her,” Wilden muttered, an adoring smile tugging at the breadth of his lips. But when his son’s expression visibly soured, he felt his heart sink. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”</p><p>“Just <em>kiss</em> me,” Ian countered, crushing their lips back together in a surge of irritation, his father offering his gaunt hips a reassuring squeeze.</p><p>Timorous hands roamed across features so very different from their own; a set of opposites determined to intertwine.</p><p>But when at last they broke their kiss, they tore at the buttons of their denims; an inelegant waltz of limbs and fingers as they rushed to reunite.</p><p>“I-If you wanna fuck me . . .” the lissome youth trailed, confection-tinged eyes misty and eager as they drank in the sight of their progenitor’s hair-dusted torso—descending into the blossom of curls about his throbbing manhood. “I dunno if I can—”</p><p>“You took it just fine <em>last</em> time,” the elder Lightfoot assured him, attempting a kindhearted smile—but his son found the expression lecherous.</p><p>And so Ian laughed—brief and sugary sweet—reaching to guide his father overtop him from his seat before the fireplace.</p><p>“Take these off,” the boy chided, anxious fingers raised to pluck gibbous frames from his elder’s honeyed-olive stare. “Lucky they haven’t been <em>broken</em> yet—”</p><p>But he was swept up in the flux of another shameless kiss, a large hand plucking the spectacles from his grip, tossing them aside carelessly as a ragged beard devoured his petal-soft lips. Calloused fingers reached between them, toying with the crystalline bead of suspended pleasure atop the frail magician’s twitching boyhood; eliciting a series of bucks and whimpers.</p><p>“D-<em>Don’t</em>—I might <em>cum</em>,” Ian mewled, his scrotum tightening in response to the coarse stimulation. “I-I’m not <em>ready</em> yet.”</p><p>But the temperate velvet of his father’s chuckle pulsed through him then, an expression torn between desire and adulation pouring over him.</p><p>“You <em>always</em> cum more than once, and you <em>know</em> it,” Wilden whispered—softly enough to leave his youngest son questioning what he’d heard. “I wanna taste you.”</p><p>The sincerity of the man’s request sent tremors through the petite mage; doe-eyes watching as Lightfoot senior trailed abrasive kisses along his abdomen—pausing only to lap up the precum pooled at his silken pelvis—before adjusting his position to take his boy’s hardness into his practiced mouth.</p><p>And Ian’s world was molten pleasure; posture slumping as he allowed his hips to roll into the lubricious warmth of his father’s mouth, soft fists reaching to tangle in tousled locks of azure (and the occasional sliver).</p><p>“I-Its too much,” the willowy youth hissed, unable to stop himself from bucking into his senior's bewhiskered lips. “Slow <em>down</em>—”</p><p>But they both knew it was over.</p><p>Lean muscles tensed as Ian rode out his initial orgasm, the fingers in his father’s hair tugging and yanking as full lips parted for a muted cry . . . But Wilden’s actions were purposeful. He wasted little time pulling off to spit the mixture of saliva and scattered pearls into his hand; palming it into the pulsating crevasse of his son’s nether.</p><p>And in a medley of passion and mindfulness, he used his acquired means to insert a dense finger into the writhing youth beneath him; working swiftly enough to insure his efforts weren’t absorbed into the skin, but gradually enough not to cause distress.</p><p>“W-<em>Wait</em>,” Ian protested meekly, eyes rounding as he felt himself filled. And no sooner than he’d vocalized his objection, had his elder stilled his hand. But upon meeting the other’s gaze—pleading and ravenous—all hesitation was rescinded. “J-Just be <em>gentle</em>?”</p><p>“I’d never hurt you,” Wilden swore, fingers steadied for a moment longer before continuing their gentle prodding. “I never <em>have</em>, and I never <em>will</em>.”</p><p>And his pledges rang true. While this occurrence was a <em>rare</em> one, the Lightfoot patriarch had <em>never</em> <em>once</em> pressured his gifted youngest into anything uninvited. Upon even the slightest reluctance, he would halt his actions; and resumed only upon receiving permission.</p><p>Despite the sporadic dissension simmering between them, their foundations of reverence and trust remained untarnished.</p><p>Two fingers—hardened by toil—pressed into the junior Lightfoot’s prostate, earning the bearded gentleman a breathy moan. But it was music to Wilden’s ears, and he found himself simpering at his own craft as he repeated his actions, eliciting a series of whimpers and shivers.</p><p>“I could listen to you <em>all day</em>,” the veteran wizard chuckled, eyes trailing along his junior’s svelte frame, admiring the telltale glisten of perspiration. “You sound so sexy.”</p><p>“I-I’m gonna cum—a-<em>again</em> if you don’t s-stop,” Ian stammered weakly, fingers seeking to grasp at any portion of his father, but finding him just out of reach in their current position.</p><p>“And what if I <em>want</em> you to?” Wilden queried, quirking a dense brow as he grinned; observing the rise of horripilation along his descendant’s fragile frame. “Can you do that for me? Can you cum one more time?”</p><p>But even as his hips swayed against this elder’s intruding digits, Ian shook his head.</p><p>“I-I don’t wanna cum unless you’re <em>inside</em> me,” he replied, voice strained as he dug his nails into the wooden flooring beneath them.</p><p>Thus, his progenitor allowed himself another chuckle, this time glazed with a perverse growl.</p><p>“<em>Ah</em>, you want me <em>inside</em> you?” he sneered, finding his lover relaxed enough for a third finger—adorned in a golden ring. “Ask <em>nicely</em>,” he quipped, smirking at the exasperated little groan his banter seemed to draw from his son.</p><p>“S-Stop <em>teasing</em> and <em>fuck</em> me!” Ian snapped, eyes brimming with tears of frustration as he braved a glimpse downward—pride doomed to drown in ravenous pools of treasured gold. “S-<em>Sorry</em>, Wil . . . P-<em>Please</em>? I-I-I want it so bad.”</p><p>The name sounded exotic on his lips; the consequence of a rule implemented early in their relationship. Any verbal reminders of their consanguinity were to be left outside of lovemaking. Iandore often struggled with this, but Wilden always asked so very <em>little</em> of him . . .</p><p>“Is <em>that</em> what you call ‘<em>nicely’</em>?” the elder mage grinned—taunting but jovial as he rose to his knees—reaching beside them to draw a glass jar from its place along the fire.</p><p>It was a fairly limpid concoction—sweetly fragranced and freshly warmed—based in aloe and oil. Ian recalled how flustered his father had been when he’d stumbled across it beneath his bedside table months prior. But they’d certainly found more than a few opportunities to share in its use since then.</p><p>Withdrawing his fingers with deliberate care—earning a whimper of discomfort from his junior—Wilden carefully applied the hyaline mixture to his drooling hardness; a nearly invisible string connecting the head of his engorged member to a glassy pool on the floor between them.</p><p>The touch of his own coarsened hand was enough to draw a little grunt from Wilden, but the lascivious sight of flushed skin and spread legs remained his goal.</p><p>“Ready for me?” the bearded conjuror inquired, warm hands hooking beneath the slighter boy’s willowy legs, resting them atop his broad shoulders. “Tell me you’re <em>sure</em>.”</p><p>But Ian merely nodded desperately, doe-eyes glassy as he drew his kiss-swollen lower lip between his teeth.</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Wilden reproached, unkempt brows drawn into a frown as he lingered. “I need you to tell me you <em>want</em> this, or we <em>stop</em>.”</p><p>At this, his barbate lips betrayed him; a haughty smirk tugging at the corners of them at his son’s visible disappointment.</p><p>“I-I fucking <em>want</em> it! Just <em>fuck</em> me!” Ian barked, a glower marring his beauty as his father slapped one of his limber thighs.</p><p>“Watch your <em>mouth</em>,” Wilden countered, a mischievous sneer emerging as he shifted to handle his own aching hardness, rubbing the head just along the tense ring of muscle at his junior’s twitching tightness. “Tell me <em>again</em>.”</p><p>And if it hadn’t been for their difference in strength, Ian would have impaled himself on the taller man’s cock in that moment; his glistening body stained rose with yearning and embellished in shudders.</p><p>“<em>Please</em>—” he paused for a little hitch, on the verge of tears as he struggled in vain to sink himself onto his father’s manhood. “I-I wanna feel you <em>inside</em> me.”</p><p>So with a judicious nod and a softening of countenance, Wilden complied; steadying the weeping head of his manhood at his son’s entrance.</p><p>“<em>Much</em> better,” the elder man smiled—adoration in his gaze as he commenced a slow, deliberate glide into the velour furnace of his progeny’s inner walls. “I like it when you’re <em>sweet</em>,” he rumbled, tightening his jaw as he felt himself gripped within the lanky youth’s tension.</p><p>And Ian rolled his hips against this intrusion, youthful enthusiasm getting the better of him as he forced himself to swallow the bulk of his father’s member, receiving a choked grunt in response.</p><p>“<em>Careful</em>. Don’t hurt yourself,” Wilden gritted, adjusting their position to sheath himself wholly inside the slick heat of the boy’s tautness. “Tell me—when you’re <em>ready</em>—”</p><p>“I-I’m not a <em>baby</em>,” Ian seethed, lashes dampened by tears of avidity as he searched his father’s salacious leer. “I can <em>take</em> it. Beat it up.”</p><p>In that moment, the elder Lightfoot allowed himself to give into his greater instincts—steadying broad hands on either side of his son’s cherubic curls as he began a steady rhythm: Pull, plunge, repeat. Preserving just enough focus to mindfully hammer at the sensitive gland inside the tenuous spellcaster.</p><p>The cries he tore from his junior drizzled like warm nectar into his flourished ears. In a medley of ludicrous blather and breathy whimpers, Ian lost himself entirely; dragged beneath the raging tides of pleasure. But <em>Wilden</em> had been lost long ago, his pilose mouth devolving from cherishing kisses to claiming bites—crueler than he’d intended—liquid garnet pooling in his mouth.</p><p>And Iandore careened into this primordial act of decadence, nails digging at the sweat-slickened skin of his father’s shoulders.</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>, Wil—” he paused for a whimper “—Knock me up. <em>Pound</em> me.”</p><p>His elder wasted little time complying, pivoting his hips and lengthening his thrusts; slamming into his son’s prostate with the full force of his might. Releasing the broken skin between his teeth, the bearded magus didn’t fret over the injury he’d caused, knowing all too well how much his boy adored a bit of damage with his romance.</p><p>“D-Don’t stop. I-I’m gonna <em>cum</em>,” Ian warned, voice not entirely his own as a dance of starlight orbited his vision with every thrust.</p><p>“Let it go, baby. Lemme feel you cum for me,” Wilden rumbled, deep in his chest and nearly animal as he mercilessly pounded at his junior’s supple interior. “Gonna fill you up as soon as you—”</p><p>That was all took, a heated vow lost to a strangled cry; the lithe wizard relinquishing a second wave of pearlescent seed between them as he clawed the breadth of his father’s back. Moments later, the seizing of his inner-walls wrenched a thunderous orgasm from his progenitor; rope after rope of viscous heat flooding into Ian’s well-used orifice, while a second claiming bite was set to tarnish the cashmere lushness of sun-kissed skin . . .</p><p>And in a slump of quivering limbs and weighty breaths, it was over—Wilden’s teeth easing from their freshly inflicted laceration—a look of apology softening his sweat-soaked visage as he placed sanguine kisses into his son’s dampened temple.</p><p>“Sorry, sweetheart. Got carried away,” he panted, pulling himself out as gently as possible; wincing at the little yelp his youngest offered in response. “I didn’t <em>mean</em> to—”</p><p>“I like it,” Ian smiled, baby-doll eyes heavy in his afterglow as he observed his father slump beside him with a little grumble. “I-It didn’t hurt. Not in the moment, y’know?”</p><p>Wilden nodded impassively, licking the taste of his son from his teeth and lips as he steadied his breathing; eventide eyes resting closed as a wave of exhaustion swept over him.</p><p>Ian simply watched, admiring the rugged beauty of the Lightfoot patriarch—hair and beard lightly overgrown, a faint tan deepening the highest plains of his striking features . . .</p><p>“I love you, Dad,” Ian murmured, reaching to intertwine their balmy fingers; conspicuous devotion in his valentine eyes.</p><p>And when his father at last returned his gaze, he found his dedication to be reflected in-full; Wilden raising his junior’s limber fingers to his whiskered lips for a chaste kiss.</p><p>“Love you <em>more</em>.”</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 🌑 h o a x 🌑</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Memory was a powerful thing.</p><p>And the memory of lost love, was the most powerful one of all.</p>
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    <p>The winds whipping about the apexed shells of adept ears were kissed by all the mist and marvel of the turbulent horizon before them.</p><p>The presence of oceanside steeps at the forest’s edge had come as a surprise to both junior and senior. Though Wilden expressed that it <em>did</em> explain a few things: The unpredictable changes in weather, the occasional traces of brine against his cabin’s anterior, and the swiftness of developing rust upon his door.</p><p>But how had they missed the ocean’s roar? The call of seabirds? Elven ears were rather keen, after all. It was almost as if the limitless woodland had opened itself up to the sea, suddenly and without warning.</p><p>Inquiries for the future, perhaps.</p><p>Presently, their thoughts were alight with sanguinity as they observed the roil of the waves below from their place at the fringe of a cliff.</p><p>Changes in scenery had always been embraced. As much as they both enjoyed the simplicity and tranquility of the forest, their charming adventures to the brooks, the lakes—and now the cliffs—allowed them experiences they’d never received the opportunity to share in life.</p><p>And Iandore wouldn’t trade these adventures for anything.</p><p>Hours passed without disruption; their cloudless day delineated by meals they’d prepared from Wilden’s abode, and languid treks along the steep to test its breadth. But as evening adorned them with its golden radiance, father and son found themselves humbled in the face of its majesty.</p><p>Memory is a powerful thing.</p><p>And the memory of lost love, is the most powerful one of all.</p><p>Honeyed eyes gazed out at the nearly cloudless horizon, a glimmer of wonder in them as their owner recounted his dreamsicle days and Willowdale nights. Spinning one golden tale into the next as his svelte companion listened-on intently.</p><p>But in time, a silence fell between them; the Lightfoot patriarch warily examining the blooming melancholy of his tender youngest’s demeanor.</p><p>Interlacing their fingers, he raised his son’s delicate hand to his whiskered lips; a show of devotion he’d perfected with his wife before his untimely demise. But his junior remained unaffected, blameless eyes void and distant as he stared into the suspended eternity of their hallowed dreamscape.</p><p>“What’s it like?” came Ian’s muted query; the fullness of a lower lip drawn between teeth.</p><p>Wilden quirked an unmanaged brow, searching his progeny’s youthful face for any indication of his meaning.</p><p>“Come again?” he replied, offering a mellow smile in attempted reassurance. Though it remained unseen; valentine eyes shadowing the descent of their sky’s greatest star.</p><p>“<em>Dying</em>,” the pastel conjurer pressed, fawn-like eyes meeting his father’s.</p><p>And then came a lull—dressed in crashing waves and the song of seabirds—until at last Lightfoot senior lent his resonance.</p><p>“<em>Peaceful</em> . . . Like before you were born,” he mused, gaze gingerly studying his boy’s as he squeezed the hand intertwined with his own.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>• • •</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>It was the last Iandore would ever see of his father—a spectral image paling with the final glimmers of eventide—just as it had in the preceding year.</p><p>An ocean view, a broken heart, a vanishing light.</p><p>The ensuing days were some of the mage’s bleakest; autumn’s arrival having marked the anniversary of his failed quest, and his elder brother’s grand departure.</p><p>He could still taste the bitterness on his lips at their parting farewell.</p><p>There was no fanfare. No thunderous applause.</p><p>Just a man of twenty years and his handcrafted chariot, dissipating into the golden afternoon with a luminous smile and wanderlust in his blood.</p><p>But in his absence, icy waves of isolation and denial would lap at the dwindling embers of his Ian’s optimism.</p><p>Ian, who wanted to believe it had all been an intricate hoax. That his father and brother would return to him with the death and rebirth of each daylight. But as weeks became months, he found his fate explicitly sealed.</p><p>There would be no more adventures, no more unwanted embraces, no more unrequited romances.</p><p>The unconditional loves he’d consistently taken for granted, had ultimately abandoned him, leaving him to inherit only the diaphanous cinders of their cherished legacies:</p><p>Photographs upon his bulletin board, and an antique cassette tape.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Any questions or comments are welcome and appreciated. Thank-you for reading.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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